The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(17)

“Bye! Have a good day at work!” I yell to the living room. Trogdor is already up on the couch, snuggled next to Ryan in his typical 8:00 a.m.–2:00 p.m. spot. The little traitor doesn’t even look up. Ryan barely acknowledges me either, but I’m used to it.

Ryan briefly raises a hand, then shouts, “No, Dave, dammit, we can’t have a hole here. It’s the first thing someone will check! Add that to the list of bugs to fix this week.”

I slept terribly last night, my mind working overtime on this Hooded Falcon thing that I keep trying to convince myself isn’t a thing, and I slept through my alarm. I should have set two. I should have set three. I haven’t slept through an alarm since college. Not only did I lie awake pondering the case, but Ryan and Lawrence had been out late all weekend with their tournament. I never sleep well with Ryan gone, and I’d basically been a zombie for two days. I hate an empty house—it’s one of the reasons I got a roommate. Trogdor would basically show anyone who broke in where the electronics were kept, as long as they had food. Traitorous fluff-butt. So last night, with Ryan finally home, I guess my body went into hibernation mode. Not helpful.

I don’t have time for breakfast, and I’m balancing my cup of crap Keurig coffee with my messenger bag as I dash for the door. Thank God I’d obsessed about this meeting enough to plan—a mustard-colored pleated skirt, black and white–striped shirt, and plaid scarf—days before and that pomade and short hair made my personal toilet less than a minute. I’ve spent so many hours in the last week perfecting my drawings, running over my less aggressive approach in my head, and imagining getting the promotion, I can’t believe that something as mundane as sleeping through an alarm could put that all in jeopardy. I’m not just cutting it close; I might not even be there when the meeting starts. Most days it doesn’t matter when I arrive. Today? Today matters, and of freaking course, my plan has been derailed.

I whip open the door and am immediately met with a wave of humidity. The sun breaks through a heavy mist, and it feels and smells like an urban jungle. I can hear a soft drizzle falling on the large broad leaves of the plants near the curb. I swear and swiftly turn around. I can’t risk my pages, carefully placed in my bag the night before, getting wet. The messenger bag is waterproof, supposedly, but I’m not keen to put it to the test for an entire bike ride this morning. Not only that, but my hair would never survive. Bedhead can be masked. Drenched hair, not so much.

I reach inside the door, snag my keys, and hurry to my brown 1990-something Ford Aspire. “Come on, baby. Come on, baby.”

I crank the key twice and am rewarded with the rich perfume of a flooded line but also the sputtering of the engine coming to life.

“One of these days I’m going to have to replace you.” I pet the wheel as I pull out onto Santa Bonita Avenue and speed toward the freeway. That purchase has to wait until I pay off my college loans. Until then, it’s the Hurtling Turd, as I affectionately call the Ford. I just can’t warrant spending money on a car when I use my bike 90 percent of the year.

I’m lucky in avoiding too much gridlock, probably because everyone else is already at work. The car screeches into a parking spot outside my building—literally. I have to push the accelerator while I’m braking, or the engine dies. And that’s when it starts raining.

I’m trying to gather up all my meeting prep and dash into the building, while pulling out my ID under the tiny canopy, when my phone vibrates and my cup of coffee topples off the top of the stack. I look down and see the splatter of my breakfast like a body laid out on the concrete.

“Dammit!” I yell, but there’s nothing to do but heft open the door and get my bag and self in out of the downpour. I all but fall into the front entrance, where I find the group of executives I’m supposed to be meeting. They look polished. I look like Tinkerbell went through a car wash. Fan-frickin-tastic.

“There you are, MG! This meeting was supposed to start seven minutes ago.” It’s Andy, and he looks alarmed at my late arrival. Or maybe alarmed at my arrival in general, given my soaked and coffee-splattered appearance.

He’s managed to tame his flyaway long curls and wears a suit jacket. He looks like a polished supervisor should, ready to present our team’s work. I’m never late. I’m never anything but polished and together. Especially for a meeting with the main executives of Genius. It’s what I do. It’s who I am at work. Show no weakness, give no quarter, prove women are up to all tasks, not just getting coffee.

Except this morning.

I’m at a loss to explain myself with the truth, not without going into the lunatic theory of a real-life vigilante superhero or a thirty-year-old journal keeping me awake at night. I start to mutter something pithy about the rain and my prints and make my way through the open conference room door.

“Honey, you left your coffee in the car,” a voice cuts me off mid-explanation. Already the executives are looking over my shoulder at the door behind me.

Andy’s face registers shock, then something like . . . glee? “Oh. Oh. Hello again.”

I whirl around because I have the sneaking suspicion that I’m going to find a tall, dark, and handsome tea drinker behind me.

“You—” I sputter, unable to form words. I’m infuriated he’s witnessing my bedraggled situation and at the same time mortified to find I’m almost glad to see him. My gladness slips into nerves, eyes darting to where Simon and Kyle stand. Has Matteo somehow figured out that I’ve kept my suspicions about them a secret? Has he found out that I’m in possession of copies from a secret notebook? Maybe I’m under arrest. I do not love the slightly sexy daydream that plays out in my head entertaining that thought. I’m obviously delusional, paranoid, and desperately in need of my morning coffee. I try again to speak. “You—”